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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


From  the  Library  of 
GERTRUDE  WEIL 

1879-1971 


BILLY-BOY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

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BILLY- BOY 

A  Study  in  Responsibilities 

6y  John  Luther  Long 

vluthor  of  'Madame Butterfly^ 
"The  Darling  of  The  Gods>£c. 

Wit/P  illus  tra  tions  6y 

Jessie  Wixecox Smith    antf 

Decorations  £yRoBERTM.eQuww 


NEW  YORK 
DODD .  MEAD  6*  COMPANY 


Copyright,   J905, 
By  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON 

Copyright,   1906, 
By  JOHN   LUTHER   LONG 

$ 

Published  September,  1906 


FOR  UNWISE  FATHERS 

AS  IF  FROM  THEIR  (SOMETIMES) 

WISE  SONS 


MR.  LONG  TAKES  PLEASURE 
IN  ACKNOWLEDGING  THE 
COURTESY  OF  "COLLIER'S 
WEEKLY,"  BY  WHOSE  PER- 
MISSION THE  TEXT  AND 
THE  ILLUSTRATIONS 
WHICH  MAKE  UP  THIS 
BOOK   ARE    HERE   USED 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  Page 

I.    Once  there  was  a  Happy  Little 

Boy \ 

II.    Who  did  n't  want  Flowers    .    .       7 

III.  Who  made  me  say  Good-Night 

through  the  Crack  of  the  Door     15 

IV.  Who  made  me  ashamed  of  Kill- 

ing.  23 

V.    Who  became  my  Judge     ...    37 

VI.    Who  twisted  the  Knife     ...    45 

VII.    Who  took  me  Home  with  him    65 

VIII.    And  took  the  Chair  from  behind 

the  Door  *•*«»**•    7i 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece 

Page 

I  found  that  Billy  had   put   a  chair 

under  the  lock M 

He  put  it  into  my  hand  .  ♦ .  so  tenderly 
. . .  that  for  the  first  time  I  began, 
perhaps,  to  understand      »    ♦     .    .     27 

It  was  **  arms  all  'round  * 49 


-   ■■ 


Billy-Boy 


ONCE    THERE    WAS    A    HAPPY 
LITTLE  BOY  — 

ONCE  there  was  a  happy  little 
boy  with  whom  I  went  away 
to  spend  a  summer  by  the 
sea.  I  took  my  new  automatic  gun, 
the  mechanism  of  which  was  very 
fascinating  to  him,  but  the  purpose  of 
which  he  did  not  understand.  By  a 
singular  oversight,  I  neglected  to  ex- 
plain that  it  was  a  machine  for  killing 

birds.    He  took  nothing  but  a  butterfly 
j 


/ 


net.  We  made  the  most  tremendous 
plans  for  sport. 

He  told  me  valiantly  that  not  a 
butterfly  in  the  whole  world  should 
escape  his  net.  I  told  him  as  bravely 
that  not  a  bird  on  earth  should  escape 
my  gun.  He  looked  puzzled  at  this, 
I  think,  but  he  was  so  full  of  the  joy 
of  the  sea  air  and  the  rushing  train 
that  it  passed. 

We  could  not  wait  to  get  out.  How- 
ever, on  the  first  day  the  wind  was 
from  the  east,  with  a  high  tide,  so 
that  there  were  no  birds  on  the  beach. 
But  we  found  for  him  a  splendid 
pitcher-plant,  and  he  was  charmed 
with  it  until  I  told  him,  ineptly,  that 

it   was    carnivorous,    and    explained 
2 


^ 


that  its  cunning  pitcher-leaves  were 
traps  to  catch  unwary  bugs  and 
drown  them,  and  then,  when  they 
had  decayed,  to  absorb  them  for 
food. 

The  little  boy  was  shocked,  and  I 
laughed  at  this  and  hugged  him.  "  It 
looks  bloody  —  beastly,"  he  said.  **  I 
don't  want  it!"  I  agreed  with  him, 
laughing  again,  that  it  had  a  monster 
look  and  threw  it  aside. 

The  next  day  was  a  good  one  for 
birds.  I  got  a  bag  full.  But  the  little 
boy  was  nervous  and  excited  during 
all  the  hunt,  took  nothing  with  his 
net,  and  on  the  way  home  complained 
of  headache.  He  would  not  let  me 
touch  him  and  rejected  all  my  offers 

3 


to  get  him  flowers.  He  would  have 
no  butterflies  caught* 

When  we  reached  home  he  was 
more  ill  and  went  at  once  to  bed*  I  left 
him  with  the  promise  that  the  next 
morning  we  would  hunt  together*  and 
that  more  attention  should  be  paid  to 
his  net.  I  apologized  for  having  been 
too  busy  that  day  with  the  birds.  I 
fancied  that  this  was  the  cause  of  his 
strange  humor — my  neglect  of  him — 
and  why  he  repelled  my  caresses. 

But  the  next  day  he  was  still  lan- 
guid and  preferred  not  to  go.  I  left 
him  at  home  and  returned  to  hear 
him  singing  —  until  I  arrived  with  my 
bag.  once  more  full,  when  his  song 
ceased. 

4 


I  told  him  cheerily  that  he  must 
be  well  on  the  morrow,  for  all  that 
day  his  wishes  should  rule  and  we 
would  return  with  as  many  flowers 
and  butterflies  as  birds.  But  he  did 
not  rise  to  my  cheer,  and  again  I 
noticed  that,  when  I  touched  him,  he 
drew  away. 

And  then  Billy-Boy  was  distinctly 
ill  the  following  day,  and  so  for  several 
days,  while  what  I  thought  his  strange 
aversion  to  being  caressed  remained. 
Yet,  again,  he  was  well  enough  to 
go  reluctantly  with  me,  though  he 
again  returned  with  his  headache  and 
the  "  strangeness " — as  we  had  agreed 
to  call  it. 

And  so  it  went  on,  Billy  going  only 

5 


when  I  urged — commanded,  indeed  — 
and  less  and  less  often  even  then,  until 
the  little  boy  remained  in  bed  for  days 
together,  and  the  unwise  doctor  came 
— the  doctor  who  sees  and  understands 
only  the  body  and  thinks  only  of  his 
drugs. 


WHO  DIDN'T  WANT 
FLOWERS  — 

IFANQED  a  case  of  heat  exhaus- 
tion; but  the  doctor  insisted  that 
there  was  not  a  symptom  of  it* 
Of  course,  the  physician  asked  Billy 
where  it  hurt  him,  and,  of  course,  the 
brave  little  boy  answered,  "Nowhere." 
And,  of  course,  with  equal  fatuity  I 
insisted  that  it  must  hurt  him  some- 
where and  that  he  must  tell  the  doctor. 
I  remember  how  Billy-Boy  opened  his 
sick  eyes  and  looked  at  me.  I  did  not 
understand  it  then,  but  I  do  now.  He 
was  asking  me  in  that  look  how  it 

7 


was  possible  that  /  did  not  understand 
where  it  hurt  him. 

I  wish  there  were  doctors  who  could 
see  a  little  further  than  the  tongue  and 
the  pulse !  But  then  why  should  they 
when  a  father  does  not  ? 

He  spoke  of  slothful  circulation  — 
listless  something  —  and  advised  fresh 
air.  I  was  to  let  him  rest  a  day  or 
two  more;  then,  perhaps,  he  would 
Ifoish  to  go  out.  If  not,  I  was  to 
induce  him  —  tempt  him  —  to  go:  it 
was  the  sunshine  he  needed.  So  said 
the  wise  doctor. 

All  this  I  did,  but  he  still  shrank 
from  going  out  with  me.  Then  I 
pressed  the  temptation. 

**  Yesterday,"  I  said,  "  I  saw  a  patch 

8 


of  wild  white  violets  as  big  as  this 
bed!" 

For  a  moment  I  succeeded.  All 
Billy's  boyish  joy  leaped  into  his  small 
face.  He  sat  up  in  bed  and  cried: 
"Oh!    Where?" 

But  his  hands  had  fallen  upon  me 
at  that  moment  and  he  relaxed;  the 
joy  fled  from  his  face  and  he  lay  inertly 
down  again. 

"If  you  won't  go  for  them  I  will 
bring  them  to  you,"  I  persisted,  know- 
ing how  this  would  further  tempt  him. 
"Bushels  of  them!" 

"  No ! "  he  cried  suddenly.  Then, 
with  a  little  remorse:  "I  don't  want 
any  flowers,  papa." 

"What!"   I  cried  in  real  amaze- 

9 


ment.  "Billy-Boy,  the  lover  of  the 
flowers!    The  beloved  of  them!" 

"They  might  be  alive,"  he  an- 
swered* "I  have  been  thinking. 
And  if  you  were  alive,  and  some  one 
stronger  than  you  was  to  press  the 
life  out  of  you  with  flatirons,  how 
would  you  like  it?" 

I  exploded  with  laughter  —  happy 
to  discover,  as  I  fancied,  that  Billy's 
illness  was  not  of  the  body  but  of 
the  strange,  beautiful  little  mind,  and 
could  be  easily  cured. 

"  Billy-Boy,"  I  said,  "  boys  are  just 
like  men.  If  they  are  allowed  to  mope 
in  bed  and  in  the  darkness  when  there 
is  sunshine  without,  they  fancy  and 
even  see  strange  things — things  which 

JO 


out  in  the  fair  daylight,  where  the  dear 
birds  sing,  and  the  lovely  flowers 
bloom,  they  will  know  to  be  not  only 
untrue  but  very  foolish/' 

And  all  Billy  answered  was :  "  Did 
you  say  the  dear  birds,  papa  ?  " 

"Why,  yes.  Nothing  on  earth  is 
so  exquisitely  made  and  adjusted  as 
the  mechanism  of  a  bird/' 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  that ! 
—  talk  so  nice ! "  sighed  Billy,  willing 
to  drop  the  whole  matter. 

Now,  at  that  moment,  the  conscious- 
ness that  Billy  did  not  quite  like  me 
any  more,  which  had  kept  me  often 
awake,  came  very  poignantly*  Of 
course,  you  didn't  know  Billy,  and 
you  can't  fancy  how  serious  a  matter 


it  was  to  be  not  liked  by  him  and  to 
be  confronted  by  the  possibility  of  his 
actual  dislike. 

"  Flowers  are  not  alive,  Billy-Boy " 
I  said  with,  I  fear,  a  bit  of  a  tremor  in 
my  voice.  "And  God  meant  them 
for  just  what  we  use  them  —  to  take 
joy  in  their  beauty  and  perfection 
and  perfume.  And  so  it  is  with 
all  the  inferior  things  and  creatures 
on  this  earth.      They   are   for    our 


use." 


"  Who  says  so  ?  "  asked  Billy. 

I  had  to  evade  this  innocent  question. 

"This  morning,"  I  faltered  on,  "I 
bagged  twenty  ring-necks  and  lost  four, 
because  Billy-Boy  was  not  there  to  rush 
into  the  raging  surf  and  get  them. 

J2 


And,  to  show  you  just  what  I  mean 
by  the  'use'  of  the  inferior  creatures 
for  our  good,  to-night  we  will  have 
them  for  dinner,  and  Billy  shall  have 
as  many  as  though  he  had  helped  to 
kill  them." 

"No!"  he  cried  again  in  sudden 
terror.  Then,  as  if  he  regretted  it: 
"  Papa,  I  don't  like  to  eat  birdies. 
Mebby  you  are  right,  papa  dear, 
about — thi — things,  but  you  won't  be 
angry  if  I  don't  eat"  —  he  choked  in 
his  throat  — "  birdies  ?  " 

"Why,  no,  Boy,"  I  cried.  "You 
are  all  the  boy  we  possess,  and  you 
are  to  have  and  not  to  have  every- 
thing you  like  or  don't  like,  as  long  as 
you  live ! " 

J3 


This  generosity  was  tragic  for  the 
little  boy.  He  said:  "Papa  dear,  to- 
morrow I  tbill  go  with  you.  But  that 
pitcher-plant  iPoas  beastly ! " 

44  Yes,"  I  laughed,  "  that  was/' 


^. 


u 


WHO  MADE  ME  SAY  GOOD-NIGHT 
THROUGH  THE  CRACK  OF  THE 
DOOR  — 

SO  the  next  day  we  went.  He 
took  a  portfolio  for  flowers,  but 
no  net;  I  took  my  gun.  And 
we  started  very  happily.  As  the  un- 
wise doctor  had  said,  the  sun  did  get 
into  the  soul  of  the  little  boy  and  our 
chatter  happened  to  be  of  safe  and 
joyous  things.  But  we  had  not  been 
long  together  when  I  knew  once  more 
that  Billy-Boy  was  aloof  —  that  he 
feared  something.  I  think  it  came 
forth  sharply  at  the  first  kill  —  though 

J5 


I  did  not  know  it  then.  Billy  cried 
out  and  ran  away  and  sat  on  the  hills 
far  off  with  his  face  turned  from  me. 
When,  later,  I  went  to  him,  he  was 
lying  face  down,  hiding  eyes  and  ears, 
and  his  portfolio  had  fallen  neglectedly 
at  his  feet*    He  had  no  flowers. 

I  had  come  softly,  and  when  I 
touched  him  he  cried  out  suddenly  in 
terror  of  me  also.  He  made  no  expla- 
nation of  this  and  begged  to  go  home. 
I  said  that  we  would  start  in  a  little 
while  —  that  I  had  seen  a  bunch  of 
birds  too  easy  to  go  away  from.  He 
answered  brusquely  that  he  was  going 
home,  and  ran  rapidly  away  without 
me  or  a  look  or  good-by  for  me  —  a 
strange  thing  for  gentle  Billy  to  do. 


*T3 

c 

3 


J 


*0 

c3 


c 

3 


When  I  got  home  Billy  was  very 
ill.  "Papa,"  he  called  through  the 
door,  "don't  come  in,  please*  Say 
good-night  through  the  crack.  I  am 
very,  very  sleepy  and  don't  want  to 
be  'sturbed." 

"But,  Boy  dear,"  I  said,  "I  must 
kiss  you  good-night.  That  has  hap- 
pened every  night  since  you  were 
born;  and  I  should  be  very  unhappy  if 
it  did  not  happen  to-night.  Would  n't 
you  be  unhappy  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Billy. 

When,  after  a  moment,  I  had  re- 
covered from  the  shock  of  this,  I 
pleaded : 

"  But  you  are  not  asleep,  Boy ! " 

I  tried  to  enter,  and  I  found  that 

19 


Billy  had  put  a  chair  under  the 
lock  which  absolutely  prevented 
me. 

"Don't!"  he  almost  shrieked  as  I 
persisted.    I  went  silently  away. 

If  you  have  never  had  a  Billy-Boy 
you  will  never  understand  how  this 
hurt.  Nothing  in  all  my  life,  I  think, 
had  hurt  so  much.  I  could  not  have 
spoken  to  Billy  again,  just  then,  with- 
out betrayal.  But  presently  I  came 
back.  Billy  must  not  know  that  he 
had  hurt  me.  For  that  would  hurt 
Billy  more. 

"  How  is  it  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

44  The  same,  papa,"  said  Billy. 

"I  am  not  to  come  in?" 

44  No,  papa  dear." 

20 


"All  right,  Boy/'  I  said.  "Good- 
night —  sleep  tight/' 

"Papa,"  came  a  little  sad  voice 
through  the  door,  "Billy's  sorry." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "of  course!" 

"  That  he  runned  away  from  you." 

"Yes." 

"  I  was  'ick,  papa  ! " 

"Of  course.  Billy  wouldn't  run 
away  from  his  papa  unless  he  was 
sick." 

"Honist!" 

"  I  know.    Honest ! " 

"  Night-night,  papa ! " 

"Night-night,  Boy!" 

I  waited  a  long  time.  Billy  might 
relent.  This  was  worth  waiting  for. 
But  there  was  nothing  more.    Do  you 

21 


observe  that  with  it  all —  the  illness, 
the  sleepiness  —  Billy  simply  did  not 
want  me  in  his  room? 

I  stole  like  a  thief  from  the  little  boy's 
door.  And  all  that  night  I  waked  and 
wondered  what  it  was*  You  would 
have  waked  and  wondered  too.  One 
does  not  lightly  lose  a  Billy's  love. 
Twice  I  crept  back.  The  first  time 
Billy-Boy  was  crying  softly.  Was  it 
for  me?  The  second  time  he  was 
safely  asleep. 

It  was  late  when  he  woke,  much 
more  ill,  and  by  that  time  the  doctor 
was  once  more  there  with  his  pre- 
scription of  air  and  sunshine. 

Why  is  there  no  thermometer  to 
test  the  temperature  of  a  child's  soul  ? 

22 


WHO  MADE  ME  ASHAMED  OF 
KILLING— 

"ORE  wise  talk  on  my  part 
and  more  desperate  penitence 
on  Billy's  part,  when  he  grew 
better,  and  we  again  went  out  together. 
But  it  was  now  so  plainly  a  matter 
of  duty  for  Billy  that  we  both  recog- 
nized the  folly  of  concealing  it.  He 
frankly  sulked.  And  I  confess  that 
for  the  first  time  in  Billy's  short  life,  I 
was  impatient  with  him.  He  knew 
this  more  and  more  as  the  day  pro- 
gressed and  was  piteously  exact  in  his. 
attention  to  me  and  the  birds.      He 

23 


even  tried  once  or  twice  to  take  my 
hand.  But  he  never  succeeded  in 
more  than  getting  the  tips  of  my  fin- 
gers —  and  that  for  but  an  instant  at 
a  time.    I  hunted  doggedly  on. 

Two  birds  rose  before  us.  The 
rage  of  the  hunter  came*  They  were 
within  good  range.  I  threw  up  my 
gun  and  fired.  One  fell  and  fluttered 
on  the  ground  a  moment*  then  lay 
still.  The  other,  evidently  hit,  gave 
a  piteous  little  cry.  circled  blindly  for 
an  instant,  then  flew  lamely  toward 
the  sea.  I  fired  the  second  barrel,  and 
the  already  wounded  bird  dropped 
heavily  into  the  surf  and  fluttered 
impotently  there. 

Two  more  came  into  range. 

24 


"  Billy ,"  I  cried,  with  my  eyes  on 
the  coming  two,  emptying  and  refill- 
ing the  barrels,  "get  the  one  in  the 
surf!" 

I  fired  at  the  other  two  —  both  bar- 
rels —  and  missed  entirely. 

"Billy!"  I  cried  angrily.  "The 
bird!" 

I  can  see  lovely  little  Billy  now! 
He  stood  there,  in  the  glorious, 
flooding  sunshine,  motionless,  with 
his  hands  tight  over  his  eyes!  His 
pretty  pink  legs  had  been  made  bare 
for  the  surf!  His  tiny  sleeves  were 
pushed  up !  But  the  rage  of  the  hunter 
was  upon  me  —  and,  added  to  that, 
was  the  rage  of  a  fair  miss. 

"  Billy,"  I  cried,  with  brutal  ferocity, 

25 


"get  that  bird  before  it  goes  out!  Go! 
It  will  get  away ! " 

Billy  drove  himself  into  the  surf  and 
brought  me  the  fluttering  little  crea- 
ture* He  put  it  into  my  hand  with  his 
two  —  so  tenderly,  with  such  terror 
and  choking  pity,  that  for  the  first 
time  I  began,  perhaps,  to  understand. 

And,  again,  I  have  a  picture  of  my 
Billy  where  it  will  never  fade — where 
it  will  always  make  and  keep  me 
gentle.  The  spray  had  dashed  upon 
his  blond  head  and  sparkled  there  like 
pearls  in  the  diadem  of  some  young 
and  very  fair  god.  His  bare  legs  and 
arms  shone  with  the  cool  salt  water. 
It  dripped  from  the  two  small  hands 
which  held  the  dying  bird.    I  cannot 

26 


3r*SS.I|  Willi  hM  %f>YtH 


"  He  put  it  into  my  hand  ...  so  tenderly  .  .  .  that  for  the 
first  time  I  began,  perhaps,  to  understand  " 


tell  you  of  his  eyes.  But  I  see  them 
now!  There  was  that  in  them  which 
I  knew  had  not  come  from  the  sea ! 
And  that  in  his  breathing  which  I 
knew  did  not  come  from  the  air! 

As  I  took  the  throbbing  creature 
from  his  hands  I  knew  that  I  had 
lost  Billy  forever !  Though  I  did  not 
know  why,  quite  —  I  did  not  under- 
stand yet,  quite  —  why  I  was  a  felon 
in  his  pure  intelligence. 

44  What  is  the  matter,  Billy-Boy  ?  "  I 
asked  guiltily.  "  Why  do  you  tremble  ? 
Why  is  your  face  so  white?  And 
why  did  n't  you  want  to  get  the  bird  ?  " 

44  May  I  go  home  ?  "  begged  Billy. 

"No.  I  want  to  know  first  why 
you  hate  me/' 

29 


"I  don't  hate  you/'  said  the  little 
boy,  "yet." 

The  wounded  bird  fluttered  out  of 
my  hand  and  fell  upon  the  ground.  I 
put  my  foot  hastily  upon  it.  Billy's 
"yet"  had  taken  away  my  breath. 

"  Take  your  foot  away ! " 

It  was  a  stern  command  from  Billy 
and  I  obeyed  it.  But  instantly  I  was 
angry,  both  at  myself  and  Billy  —  for 
his  autocratic  command  and  my 
craven,  involuntary  obedience  to  it.  I 
reclaimed  the  bird  from  him  savagely. 

44  Turn  your  back !  It  is  wounded 
and  must  not  be  left  to  suffer.  I  will 
kill  it.     Be  silent!" 

But  my  own  command  was  the 
desperate  expedient  of  the  convicted. 

30 


It  was  nothing  like  imperial  innocent 
Billy's.    Nor  was  it  so  obeyed. 

"Let  me  have  it,"  begged  Billy, 
chokingly.     "I  can  cure  it!" 

I  laughed  —  but  far  from  happily. 

"  Nothing — nobody  can  cure  it ! 

"Anyhow,  it  is  better  for  it  to  die 
than  to  be  killed." 

O  wonderful  distinction ! 

"This  is  more  merciful,"  I  said,  but 
I  could  not  proceed  to  execute  my  easy 
kind  of  mercy. 

"But  it  is  your  fault,  papa.  You 
hurt  it,  and  now  you  want  to  kill  it 
*  cause  you  hurt  it.  And  it's  only  a 
helpless  little  bird  that  couldn't  hurt 
you** 

Taking   advantage   of   one's   own 

3J 


wrong  has  never  had  a  more  power- 
ful or  personal  demonstration. 

Billy  caressed  the  little,  ruffled,  be- 
draggled thing  in  my  hands,  speaking 
a  sort  of  language  to  it  that  I  did  not 
understand,  but  which  I  think  the 
dying  creature  did.  At  least  I  hope 
so ;  and  I  hope  that  when  I  die  Billy 
will  be  able  to  speak  as  lovingly  to 
me,  and  that  I  shall  understand  as 
well. 

But  among  other  things  I  heard  Billy 
saying : 

"  This  was  the  first  shot,  birdie  dear 
—  the  poor  little  wing.  That  was 
the  time  you  cried  out.  Billy  had  to 
hide  his  eyes  then!  Oh,  but  did  tit 
it  hurt  us  I    This  was  the  second  shot 

32 


—  this  is  the  dear  little  neck  —  when 
you  thought  you  were  safe  at  sea ! 
And  that  hurt  more*  Oh,  it  wasn't 
nice  to  hurt  a  little  birdie  already 
hurted." 

And  then  into  my  soul  Billy  put 
the  knife  and  turned  it. 

"See  how  it  pains  him  when  I 
touch  that  wing  1 "  Billy's  touch,  to  give 
pain!  "And,  oh,  papa!  feel  its  dear 
little  heart  beat !    Papa  —  you  did  it." 

I  felt  it  now  —  that  small  heart  —  I 
had  not  before.  It  would  go  wildly 
for  an  instant  —  then  so  slowly  that 
it  was  lost. 

"Billy,"  I  begged,  now  reduced  to 
that, "  I  must  kill  it.  You  must  let  me. 
Turn  your  back.    You  are  too  young 

33 


to  understand.  I  must !  "  and  I  was 
sick  at  heart  because  I  must.  "  Take 
care !  You  will  soil  your  clothes  with 
the  blood." 

"I  don't  care  —  I  don't  care ! "  cried 
the  little  boy.  "  Give  it  to  me !  It 
will  live  a  white  longer,  anyhow ! " 

"  Billy,  we  must  be  merciful  to  the 
little  bird  and  kill  it"  I  insisted, 
hoping  that  he  would  do  it  —  lovely 
Billy  —  yet  frenzied  with  fear  that 
he  might! 

But  it  was  useless  to  try  to  make 
Billy  understand  such  a  fearful  philos- 
ophy as  that  —  Billy,  who  had  not  his 
philosophies  from  earth,  but  heaven, 
I  think.  I  did  not  understand  it  my- 
self just  then. 

34 


"  They  don't  kill  people  who  are 
hurt*  They  try  to  cure  them,"  said 
Billy. 

"But,  Billy,  this  is  only  a  little 
bird  I " 

44  And  you  are  a  big  man  I " 

It  was  Billy's  ultimatum.  And  he 
had  better  have  called  me  a  monster 
torturing  a  pigmy.  There  was  no 
answer  to  it.  What  was  I  to  do? 
There  lay  the  bird  in  my  palm,  gasp- 
ing through  the  shot-holes  in  its  neck. 
It  was  useless  to  tell  Billy  again  that 
nothing  could  save  the  small  life, 
that  it  had  but  a  minute  more  of 
existence. 

**  Papa,  ought  n't  we  be  kind  to  it  ? 
We  hurt  it!" 

35 


Do  you  observe  that  he  said  "We!" 

I  think  I  was  becoming  a  bit  hyster- 
ical* But  I  shall  call  it  simply  impa- 
tience. Then  I  found  myself  angry 
at  the  cruel  position  into  which  Billy 
had  at  last  forced  me. 

"Turn  your  back!"  I  cried  savagely. 

Billy  did  this,  and  I  killed  the  bird 
and  threw  it  up  on  the  bit  of  a  hill 
where  Billy  had  used  to  sit.  When  I 
turned,  with  the  very  guilt  of  a  felon 
inside  and  my  hands  red  with  what 
Billy  had  first  made  to  seem  inno- 
cent blood,  to  face  the  most  relentless 
judge  in  the  world,  Billy  was  gone. 
I  thanked  God  for  it. 


36 


WHO  BECAME  MY  JUDGE— 

I  HAVE  never  shot  another  bird. 
I  have  since  tried  to  kill  no  living 
creature.  For,  whatever  may  be 
its  form,  it  has  within  it  that  wondrous 
thing  which  God  alone  can  give  and 
perhaps — who  knows  ?  —  ought  alone 
to  take — life.  And  the  little  boy  and  I 
go  out  together  once  more.  At  first 
he  was  very  shy  of  me.  He  under- 
stood, I  think,  that  he  had  judged  me 
with  too  stern  a  justice  —  for  his  years 
and  mine.  And,  while  I  am  sure  that 
he  did  not  regret  it,  for  he  must  have 
had  an  almost  celestial  obsession  of  its 

37 


justice,  he,  I  am  also  sure,  rather  felt 
that  he  had  exercised  powers  not  yet 
confided  to  him.  Then,  perhaps,  too, 
there  might  have  been  something  of 
the  sensation  which  a  judge  must  feel 
who  finds  himself  compelled  to  intimate 
relations  with  the  ex-convict  he  has 
made  —  but  who  has  pledged  reforma- 
tion. I  think  no  one  quite  knows  what 
a  judge's  attitude  ought  to  be  in  such 
a  case.  It  is,  to  say  the  least,  embar- 
rassing to  both.  Again,  Billy  may 
not  have  been  as  certain  of  my  refor- 
mation as  I  was.  I  had  not  spoken. 
I  was  both  hurt  and  ashamed  before 
my  serious  little  boy.  I  felt  that  he 
should  have  trusted  my  superior  wis- 
dom.    Indeed,  the  only  surety  Billy 

38 


could  have  in  those  later  days  was 
that  I  never  took  my  gun  along  when 
we  went  out.  But  even  that  I  had 
not  omitted  at  first.  I  was  too  proud 
to  at  once  admit  my  conviction  and 
reformation.  At  first  I  would  carry 
my  empty  gun  with  me  and  come 
home  whistling,  as  though  it  were  the 
most  natural  and  inspiring  thing  in 
the  world  for  a  hunter  to  carry  an 
empty  gun  on  his  shoulder  and  never 
hunt.  And  then  I  fancied  that  I  was 
not  half  as  bad  as  Billy  thought  me. 
I  had  always  hated  to  kill  wounded 
birds.  Every  hunter  does.  But  what 
was  one  to  do?  There  stood  that 
law  of  the  hunter  and  the  hunted,  that 
a  wounded  animal  must  be  killed  so 

39 


that  it  might  not  suffer.  And  Billy- 
had  no  business  to  think  that  I  took 
pleasure  in  this. 

Of  course,  it  was  good  to  know 
that  since  my  retirement  from  active 
hunting  Billy  had  ceased  to  be  so  ill. 
Perhaps  you  will  observe  between  us 
a  bit  of  that  heredity  which  should 
have  made  us  very  intimate  comrades. 
For  neither  was  inclined  to  unbosom 
until  time  should  do  its  perfect  work 
in  showing  him  his  folly.  But  the 
fact  is  that  I  had  about  reached  that 
point  in  my  temperament.  I  knew 
now  that  I  could  have  Billy's  love 
back  for  my  confidence,  and  I  knew 
that  he  was  waiting  for  it.  But  I  was 
not  yet  sure  that  he  —  little  Billy  — 

40 


was  entitled  to  this  from  me  —  big 
William  —  his  father. 

Nevertheless  then,  that  sensation — 
have  you  ever  known  it  ?  —  that  your 
little  boy  is  at  your  side,  but  that  you 
must  not  touch  him  —  to  understand 
that  he  is  probably  wondering  whether 
you  have  no  courage,  to  have  the  sus- 
picion, finally,  that  he  may  be  better 
and  bigger  and  braver  in  his  little 
heavenly  unwisdom  than  you  with 
all  yours  of  the  world  ?  All  this  per- 
sisted steadily. 

Said  Billy  one  day,  just  to  show 
you  how  clairvoyantly  he  understood: 

"  Papa,  we  have  n't '  confided  *  much 
lately,  have  we?" 

"What's  that?"  I  asked  cunningly, 

41 


knowing  perfectly  what  he  meant,  but 
exercising  the  convict's  wariness* 

"  Don't  you  know  how  you  used  to 
tell  me  that  I  must  tell  you  —  or  some 
one  —  all  my  troubles  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  that  then  I  would  always 
feel  better?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  it  hurts  the  nice  clean 
heart  to  keep  nasty  things  in  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.    What  have  you  to  tell  ?" 

"Nothing,  papa  dear  —  /  haven't 
anything/' 

We  were  not  walking  close  as  of 
old  on  this  day.  He  still  was  not 
sure.  How  could  he  be?  He  must 
still  have  felt  that  barrier  between  the 

42 


convict  and  the  judge,  I  suppose  he 
had  made  it  clear  to  himself  that  our 
hearts  must  be  cleaned  out  by  my  initi- 
ative—  according  to  my  own  teach- 
ing —  and  could  only  be  in  that  way. 
And  the  whole  case — the  purpose,  the 
repentance,  the  forgiveness  —  must  be 
put  into  direct  words  for  his  pure 
young  soul.  Certainly  he  could  not 
ask  me  whether  I — in  his  own  under- 
standing of  it  —  meant  to  go  on  mur- 
dering little  birds;  whether  this  were 
only  a  temporary  cessation  of  my 
criminal  instinct!  That  was  for  me. 
The  fact  is  that  Billy  at  first  made 
many  of  these  opportunities  for  me  to 
**  confide/'  But,  then,  when  I  failed  of 
advantage  in  them,  with  the  temper 

43 


of  the  just  judge  considering  the  case 
of  a  loved  but  stubborn  culprit,  who 
must  reach  happiness  through  sorrow, 
he  no  longer  made  it  easy  for  me. 
Though  I  do  not  say,  of  course,  that 
Billy  reached  any  of  those  conclusions 
by  argument.  With  him  I  think  it 
was  that  intelligence  from  above  with 
which  children  are  born,  and  which 
we  would  do  better  to  let  alone  to  go 
to  its  natural  death  in  the  holocaust  of 
the  world  rather  than  hasten  to  its 
destruction  because  it  is  "childish." 


44 


WHO  TWISTED  THE  KNIFE— 

vNE   day  a  flock  of  the  very 

birds  I  had  used  to  kill  rose 

before  us. 

"  We  could  get  two  or  three  out  of 

that  bunch,  papa  dear,  could  n't  we 

—  if  we  had  the  gun?" 

We!  I  grew  very  warm  at  this 
renewed  twisting  of  the  knife,  and 
answered  him  nothing. 

The   little   boy   twisted   it   again: 
44  Don't  you  wish  we  had  the  gun  ?  " 
"No!"  I  said  terribly. 
He  was  shocked  to  a  pleased  silence 
for  a  moment. 

45 


This  was  evidently  good,  but  it  did 
not  go  far  enough.  Billy  must  know 
what  I  would  not  yet  tell  He  went 
on  heroically: 

"That's  always  the  way"  —  he 
quoted  a  gunner's  aphorism  —  "No 
gun,  game  plenty*  Game  plenty,  no 
gun ! " 

He  had  pushed  me  to  the  wall  at 
last.  I  took  him  so  savagely  by  his 
thin,  beautiful  little  shoulders  that 
terror  flew  to  his  eyes.  I  made  him 
to  face  me.  I  think  in  that  moment  he 
feared  his  first  physical  chastisement. 
Perhaps  he  had  gone  too  far  with  me  ? 
Perhaps  he  had  been  impudent  ? 

"  Papa,"  he  said,  "  I  am  sorry ! " 

"Boy,"  I   said,  "we  shall   never 

46 


again  kill  anything  God  made*    Do 
you  understand  ?  " 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  believe. 
Then  he  smiled,  laughed,  and,  with 
his  laughter,  plentiful  tears  streamed 
down  his  dear  face.  For  a  long  time 
we  stood  there,  Billy  struggling  chok- 
ingly with  his  laughter  and  sobs  for 
some  of  the  words  which  must  have 
poured  from  his  heart  too  thickly  for 
his  lips;  I,  awkward,  as  if  I  stood 
in  the  presence  of  an  august  being  I 
yearned  for,  but  must  not  approach 
without  invitation  until  I  had  been 
judged,  I  cannot  now  remember  who 
first  did  it.  But  presently  with  Billy 
and  me  it  was  "  arms  all  'round,"  as 
we  used  to  call  it.    And,  though  I 

47 


could  not  subdue  my  pride  sufficiently 
to  say  so,  and  have  not  even  to  this 
day,  Billy,  happy  as  he  was,  was  not 
so  happy  as  L 

For  Billy  was  mine  again,  and  I 
was  his,  for  so  little  a  price !  and  we 
both  knew  that  it  would  be  always 
so  now. 

"Papa  dear,  le  —  let  us  gi  —  go 
up  there  and  — ti  —  talk,  papa  dear, 
4  confide  M" 

He  dragged  me  by  the  arm  up  to 
the  top  of  the  bit  hillock  where  I  had 
flung  the  dead  bird  that  day.  And 
more  and  more  I  knew  by  the  sure 
clutch  of  the  little  hand  on  my  arm  — 
oh,  you  know  that  grip  of  sure  loving 
possession  ?  —  I  hope  so  I  —  that  Billy 

48 


FCS^EWIUCOK  SMITh 


"  It  was  *  arms  all  'round ' n 


and  I  were  one  and  inseparable  forever 
and  ever ! 

The  hillock  was  crowned  with 
splendid  flowers  and  grasses;  the  sun 
was  setting  at  its  back ;  the  sea  spread 
before  it  in  pink  to  the  blue  and  green 
sky ;  and  the  perfume  of  the  wild  roses 
in  the  meadows  afar  back  had  come 
to  seek  the  sea  I  It  was  such  a  spot 
that  Billy,  or  happy  fate,  chose  for  our 
44  confiding/' 

I  was  so  glad  that  I  did  not  scruple 
to  begin  with  laughter: 

44  Billy-Boy  "  I  said,  "  you  played  a 
hard  game.  You  never  once  made  it 
easy  for  me  —  as  I  do  for  you  when 
we  are  to  confide/' 

"I  didn't  know  how,  papa  dear," 

51 


mourned  Billy,  nestling  to  me,  "I 
couldn't.  I  tried  — 'deed  I  did  I  If 
you  had  only  —  only  —  oh,  I  dunno 
what  I  I  was  bovvered  awful !  I 
wasn't  nice  to  you,  was  I?" 

"  As  nice  as  I  deserved,  I  suppose/' 

I  laughed  again,  kissing  the  top  of 
Billy's  head  where  it  projected  through 
my  circling  arm. 

"Now,  will  you  go  first,  or  shall 
I  ?  "  For  that  was  the  manner  of  our 
confiding  —  to  first  agree  upon  a  basis 
of  procedure. 

"  I  dess  I  better  go  first,"  said  Billy, 
generously  —  for  by  our  code,  strictly 
pursued,  it  was  my  duty  to  open. 

"Well,"  I  said,  not  to  be  outdone 
in  generosity  by  my  antagonist,  "I 

52 


think  you  may,  though  I  ought,  for 
you  have  made  up  the  case  against 
me  and  know  it  better  than  I  do,  even 
if  I  suspect  it  pretty  thoroughly  " 

Billy  went  on,  almost  solemnly : 

"  Well,  you  see,  papa  dear,  I  asked 
mama  how  many  little  birdies  you 
had  killed  and  she  said  she  did  not 
know.  But  I  made  her  think.  So 
I  said,  *  Was  it  a  thousand  ? '  Mama 
said,  *  Oh,  yes  I  ■  And  I  said,  '  Two 
thousand,  mama?'  And  she  said, 
'Yes,  perhaps  two  thousand/" 

"I'm  afraid,  Boy,"  I  said,  "that 
mama  was  very  lenient.  It  is  more 
than  that." 

But  he  did  not  seek  to  convict  me 
of  the  deeper  offence.    He  was  gentle 

53 


now  —  neither  judge  nor  accuser,  but 
comforter  —  Billy!  Instead,  he  raced 
on,  unloading  his  heart,  as  I  had 
taught  him  to  do. 

"Well,  that  is  what  made  me  ill. 
I  couldn't  help  thinking  about  it  in 
the  dark.  And  I  did  see  things  —  like 
you  said.  I  saw  all  those  two  thou- 
sand little  birdies.  Oh,  it  was  such  a 
flock  I  And  then  I  had  to  think  about 
them  all  stopping  chattering  in  the  tree 
— that's  how  I  saw  them  —  and  fall- 
ing dead  on  the  ground,  and  my  papa 
—  and  me  —  there  with  the  pretty 
gun.  They  were  such  little  things, 
and  you  and  me  were  so  big !  Noth- 
ing is  so  nice  and  pretty  as  a  birdie,  is 
it,  papa  ?  " 

54 


44  Nothing/*  I  said, 

44  And  they  sing  for  us ! " 

"Yes." 

**  And  they  never  hurt  a  thing ! " 

44  Not  a  thing/' 

44  Don't  you  love  to  see  them  flying 
—  almost  up  to  the  sky  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Papa,  God  must  like  'em — to  let 
'em  do  that ! " 

44  Yes,  I  think  He  does." 

44  And  so  easy  —  easy  —  easy !  No 
boy  nor  man  can  do  that,  can  they  ?  " 

"No,"  I  said,  "the  wisest  men  on 
earth  have  tried  to  do  it  —  they  have 
even  tried  to  find  out  how  the  birds 
do  it.  But  God  has  kept  their  secret. 
They  have  all  failed.    I  think  God 

55 


will  always  keep  the  secret  of  the 
birds,  and  that  men  will  never  be  able 
to  fly  as  they  do." 

"  Go  on,  papa !  Tell  me  more  stuff 
about  that ! "  cried  the  enraptured  little 
boy. 

But  I  had  to  confess  that  he  had 
heard  all  I  knew  about  flying — either 
by  men  or  birds* 

"  Besides,"  I  said,  "  are  n't  we  get- 
ting away  from  the  case  on  trial  ?  " 

Billy  did  not  even  smile  as  he  at 
once  resumed  it* 

"That's  where  the  life  comes  in, 
papa  dear.  One  minute  a  birdie  is 
flying  in  the  sky  as  light  as  cotton. 
Then  some  one  shoots  little  bullets 
through    it    and    it    falls    like    lead. 

56 


That's  the  life,  papa,  isn't  it,  that 
goes  out  through  the  little  bullet- 
holes  ?" 

"Y-yes,"Isaid. 

"  And  that  goes  away,  away,  some- 
where, mebby  back  to  God  ?  " 

"Perhaps," I  choked. 

"And  then  the  little  birdie's  just 
like  a  stone!" 

"Yes." 

"  And  how  fast,  fast  they  fly ! " 

"The  fastest  bird,"  I  said  wisely, 
glad  to  get  away  from  Billy's  terrible 
speculations  upon  life,  "goes  faster 
than  anything  men  have  yet  made." 

"  Faster  than  a  railroad  train  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"  And  then,  when  they  're  shot,  all 

57 


that  life  goes  out  and  they  stop  and  fall 
just  like  this  !  " 

He  smote  his  pink  hands  together  in 
illustration* 

"  Papa,  what  is  the  life?  " 

"Well,  Billy,"  I  wavered,  "I  don't 
think  any  one  knows.  That  is  God's 
secret  too." 

"And  birds  are  such  happy  little 
things,  papa  dear.  And  round.  And 
their  feathers  are  so  beautiful  and  fit 
so  well.  I  don't  believe  people  could 
make  feathers ! " 

"Nor  I,"  I  admitted. 

He  was  quite  out  of  breath  and 
stopped  to  recover. 

"  That 's  why  I  could  n't  sleep." 

"  And  was  that  all  ?    Is  it  all  out  ?  " 

53 


u 


Yes  —  honist,  papa/' 

44  And  you  will  get  well  now  ?  " 

44  Oh,  yes,  papa  dear !    I  am  well ! " 

44  The  birds  will  never  have  a  braver 
champion/*  said  I. 

"It  wasn't  the  birdies  —  all,"  said 
Billy,  so  quickly  that  I  knew  he  meant 
to  correct  some  misunderstanding  of 
mine* 

"What  then?  "I  asked. 

44  You,  papa  dear." 

44  Thank  you,  Boy,"  I  said.  "  We 
shall  not  need  to  bother  about  that  any 
more.    I  Ve  reformed." 

44 1  know,"  said  Billy,  "and  I'm 
sorry  it  hurts  you.  But  it  used  to 
hurt  me  when  you  'd  kill  things.  Papa, 
sometimes  I  wasn't  ill.     But  then  I 

59 


didn't  have  to  go  out  with  you  and 
kill" 

"I  forgive  you,"  I  smiled,  a  bit 
sadly,  I  fear. 

Billy  kissed  me. 

"Papa,"  he  said,  "to-night  Pll  kiss 
you  good-night,  too.  Shall  I  tell  you 
more  stuff?" 

"  Yes  —  everything.  We  must 
cleanse  the  little  heart." 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  are  as 
nice  as  you  are!" 

I  laughed  and  proved  to  Billy-Boy 
just  how  nice  I  could  be* 

"  But  I  guess  I  was  n't  very  nice  to 
you.  Mebby  if  I  had  told  you  not  to 
kill  the  birds  —  that  it  hurts  me  in 
here  —  "  he  put  both  his  small  hands 

60 


against  his  chest  —  **  you  would  n't 
have?" 

"  Do  anything  to  hurt  Billy  ?  Cer- 
tainly not ! " 

"  Then/'  he  said  oracularly,  u  it  is 
all  my  fault." 

I  let  him  have  the  comfort  of  think- 
ing himself  a  fellow  criminal  with  me. 

"Well,  say  out  fault?" 

"Yes.  So  I  went  and  found  that 
one  —  you  know  —  up  here  on  this 
hill  —  and  buried  it  in  a  little  grave, 
with  sticks  around  to  keep  the  snakes 
out.  When  we  go  home  I'll  show 
you.  Oh,  I  did  n't  tell  you  something 
else!" 

"  Tell  me  quickly ! "  I  cried.  "  You 
must  play  fair !  " 

6J 


But  do  you  observe  that  I  was  tell- 
ing the  little  boy  nothing?  And  that 
he  generously  remitted  that? 

"Well,  one  night  when  I  could  n't 
sleep,  I  thought  that  I  wasn't  much 
better  nor  bigger  nor  stronger  than  a 
birdie.  And  I  know  I  'm  not  so  pretty. 
Well,  there  are  giants.  To  a  giant  I 
am  just  as  little  account  as  a  bird  or 
an  ant  —  mebby.  And  what  would 
you  think  if  some  giant  would  come 
along  some  day  before  I  could  get  out 
of  his  way  and  step  on  me  —  and  not 
even  know  it  —  just  walk  on  ?  And 
I  wondered  how  I  'd  feel.  It  would 
hurt  me  dreadfully,  would  n't  it  ?  And, 
papa,  you  'd  hate  him !  He  so  big  and 
me  so  little!    And  mebby  he'd  step 

62 


on  me  just  for  fun.  That  is  the  way- 
people  do  to  ants.  And  laugh !  Papa, 
would  n't  you  hate  the  giant  ?" 

"If  any  giant  should  hurt  you, 
Boy,  he  would  have  to  settle  with  me, 
though  he  were  as  tall  as  a  church 
steeple ! "  I  said. 

"I  knew  it!  Big  things  have  no 
business  to  kill  little  things!  They 
ought  to  take  care  of  them  —  like  you 
do  of  me.  Oh,  yes !  And,  papa,  you 
would  n't  like  me  to  kill  birdies,  would 
you?" 

44  Boy — Boy — Boy,"  I  cried,  crush- 
ing him  to  me,  "  no !  " 

"No.  You  have  told  me  not  to 
kill  things!" 

Billy   seemed  to  think  a  moment 

63 


very  seriously.  Then  he  said:  "I 
guess  that  *s  all,  papa  dear.  And  I 
won't  put  no  chair  behind  the  door 
to-night,  and  you  may  sit  on  my  bed 
and  tell  me  sleepy  stories/' 


(A 


WHO  TOOK  ME  HOME  WITH 
HIM  — 

THEN  we  went  homeward*  It 
was  quite  evening.  The  sun 
was  nearly  gone.  The  air 
was  saffron  —  the  sea.  We  seemed 
to  be  walking  straight  into  the  great 
yellow  disk  already  half  below  the 
waters.  The  path  was  strewn  with 
wild  rose  leaves.  The  breeze  was 
nectar.  Billy  and  I  were  at  peace, 
and  all  the  earth  seemed  with  us. 
When  we  neared  the  porch  he  leaped 
upon  my  shoulder  and  shouted  so  lus- 
tily that  she  who  looked  anxiously  for 

65 


us  both  came  smiling  to  the  door  at 
once,  and  at  once  understood.  The 
doctor  was  with  her*  He  wisely  felt 
the  little  boy's  pulse  and  made  him 
put  out  his  tongue. 

44  A  perfect  recovery /'  he  said.  44  It 
is  wonderful  —  wonderful,  what  sun- 
shine will  do.  He  was  really  a  very 
sick  boy.  I  don't  think  I  need  to 
come  again." 

44  Does  he,  Boy  ?  "  asked  I. 

"  No,"  laughed  the  little  boy,  with 
his  arms  close  about  my  neck  and  a 
confidential  hug;  for  he,  too,  under- 
stood. 

Then,  when  the  doctor  was  gone : 

"  Oh,  I  nearly  forgot ! n  cried  Billy. 

He  said  nothing  more,  but  led  me 

66 


by  the  hand  into  the  garden*  At  last 
we  came  to  a  small  green  place  he  had 
fenced  about  with  sticks*  Inside  was 
a  tiny  mound*  At  each  end  of  it  were 
small  slabs  of  wood  which  he  had 
shaved  with  the  kitchen  knife  into  rude 
shapes  of  gravestones.  I  noticed  that 
they  were  void  of  letters,  which  Billy 
began  to  know. 

"Papa/*  whispered  the  little  boy. 
44  take  off  your  hat.  please." 

I  did  so.  He  had  taken  off  his  cap 
long  before. 

44  Pardon  me.  Billy  dear."  I  said,  a 
strange  choking  in  my  throat. 

Billy  said  nothing.  But  I  heard  his 
voice  break  in  a  sob  as  he  tried  to 
speak.    He  was  on  his  knees  at  the 

67 


small  green  spot.  And,  I  hesitate  to 
confess  it,  but  I  dropped  to  my  knees 
beside  Billy  and  took  him  in  my 
arms.  You  see,  you  have  never  been 
me,  nor  had  a  Billy-Boy,  or  I  would 
not  have  to  be  ashamed  to  confess 
that. 

"Papa,  aren't  we  sorry  for  the 
poor  birdie  ?"  whispered  Billy. 

Do  you  observe  that  the  little  boy 
said  "We"? 

I  told  him  that  we  were,  using 
the  pronoun  he  had  chosen  —  glad 
to  do  so. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be.  So  I  went 
and  found  it,  and  we  won't  have  to  be 
sorry  for  —  that  —  papa  dear." 

"  Thank  you,  Billy,"  I  said  huskily. 

63 


"I  wish  we  had  all  of  those  two 
thousand,  papa  dear." 

"  I  do,  too,  Billy/' 

He  apologized  for  the  blankness  of 
the  tombstone : 

I  did  n't  know  exactly  what  to  put 
on  it  —  " 

But  then  he  remembered  to  be  per- 
fectly frank,  as  we  had  long  ago 
agreed  to  be  with  each  other. 

"No,  that  isn't  right,  papa  dear. 
I  did  it  when  we  —  we  —  did  n't  love 
each  other.  And  I  could  n't  say  '  Died 
the  twenty-ninth  day  of  June/  and  so 
on,  for  '  died '  is  what  we  say  of  the 
things  God  kills.  And  He  has  the 
right,  I  expect  —  though  I  don't  see 
why  He  should  kill  things  He  makes. 

69 


And  I  didn't  like  to  say  'killed/ 
even  if  we  didn't  love  each  other 
then.  Killed  means  murder.  Any- 
how, don't  you  think  God  under- 
stands ?  " 

"  Yes/'  I  said,  and  wished  that  He 
might  forgive  as  He  understood. 

"  That 's  why  they  put  the  names, 
and  so  forth,  on  tombstones  —  so  that 
God  understands.  And  don't  you  re- 
member that  in  the  Testament  about 
not  a  sparrow  falling  down  on  the 
ground  except  God  sees  him?  And 
a  snipe  is  just  as  nice  as  a  sparrow 
—  don't  you  think  ?  " 


70 


AND  TOOK  THE  CHAIR  FROM 
BEHIND  THE  DOOR  — 

THAT  night,  indeed,  the  little 
boy  did  not  put  a  chair  behind 
his  door*  And  I  kissed  him 
good-night  for  the  first  time  in  two 
weeks.  And  he  kissed  me  three 
times  back  —  as  though  to  say  in  that 
opulent  fashion  that  all  was  fair  for- 
ever between  us.  And  then,  that 
there  might  be  no  doubt  to  keep  me 
waking,  he  called  me  back  and  kissed 
me  again,  winding  his  soft  arms  and 
legs  about  me  in  what  he  supposed  a 
leviathan  garroting. 


And  this  time  I  might  not  go  till  I 
had  told  him  a  sleepy  story  of  a 
strange  man  who  nearly  lost  his  little 
boy's  love,  and  a  curious  little  boy 
who  nearly  lost  his  father's  love,  be- 
cause they  did  not  quite  understand 
the  workings  of  the  little  beating  thing 
in  the  breast  called  a  "  heart/'  nor  the 
wonders  of  another  thing  called  the 
44  soul."  So  that  each  had  to  turn  his 
heart  inside  out  to  the  other,  until 
each  knew  its  workings  and  confided 
many  things  until  they  knew  better 
the  wonders  of  the  soul.  After  that 
there  was  no  more  danger,  because 
they  would  always  do  that  when  they 
did  not  understand. 

Little    Billy's    eyes    had    already 

72 


closed.  But  he  tore  them  open  to 
shout  happily: 

"Why,  that's  me!" 

**  You  ?  "  said  I,  very  happily* 

"And  you,  papa!" 

Then  Billy,  indeed,  slept. 

I  watched  him  a  moment.  And 
if  you  had  known  Billy  you  would 
have  watched  him,  too.  You  could  n't 
have  helped  it.  And  that  is  another 
picture  I  have  of  Billy  —  his  sleeping. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  dearest.  I  wonder 
whether  any  one  ever  watched  me  as 
I  slept  ?  I  wonder  if  I  ever  was  worth 
it?  I  am  certain  I  was  not  as  well 
worth  it  as  Billy.    Are  you? 


73 


And  now  we  go  out  together  every- 
day* In  fact,  Billy  is  disconsolate  if 
we  cannot.  And  I  am  mad  for  it. 
But  we  won't  even  pull  the  flowers 
—  for  fear  it  will  hurt  them. 

44  For  we  don't  know,  do  we,  papa 
dear  ?  n  says  Billy. 

And  I  answer : 

"  No,  we  don't  know." 

Do  you  ? 

And  it  is  sweeter  that  way,  even 
if  we  did  know. 

44  We  're  just  as  happy  with  each 
other,"  comforts  Billy. 

And  I  answer  yes,  though  I  am  not 
just  as  happy  —  I  am  happier. 


74 


